


A Small Transport

by MagdaTheMagpie



Series: Deductions and a Touch of Magic [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magical Artifacts, POV John Watson, Pre-Slash, muggle baiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 17:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3454931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagdaTheMagpie/pseuds/MagdaTheMagpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anyone can fall victim to muggle-baiting. Yes, even Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Small Transport

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is barely a cross-over since we won't be dealing with any of the Harry Potter characters but since that's where I got the idea from, I thought I should acknowledge the Fandom anyway.  
> Also a big thank you to fellow writer A Sherlocked Girl, who helped me power-through to the ending with her kind words of encouragement. I highly recommend her fic "I'll Find You Again" and its sequel, pure gold!

 

Whenever D.I. Lestrade calls Sherlock out especially early to a crime scene, he always makes sure he, and by extension John himself, have a nice steaming hot cup of coffee waiting for them. Today is no exception, and, as soon as they meet up with the inspector in the posh hotel lobby, he whistles and gestures for Donovan who comes over, dragging her feet, and grudgingly supplies them with caffeine while Lestrade starts laying out the facts for Sherlock.

Or tries to, at any rate, because the consulting detective spits out the coffee on the bright red carpet at his feet.

“Urgh, that’s disgusting, Donovan! Are you trying to poison me?” Sherlock growls at her before rounding on Lestrade. “Is she trying to poison me, Lestrade? Get your people under control, for God’s sake.”

John rolls his eyes. Sherlock’s lack of sleep has made him especially cranky lately and he’s seriously considering slipping him a sleeping pill himself.

“Really, Sherlock. Don’t be so melodramatic. Just because you don’t _like_ the coffee doesn’t mean it’s poisoned. Here, take a mint,” he says, offering his friend one of the wrapped sweets from the reception desk while Sherlock unceremoniously thrusts the offending coffee in his hands.

“And there’s a water fountain in the back office if you want,” Lestrade offers while glaring suspiciously at Donovan.

John knows the D.I. has briefed his team on the dire consequences they would face if they dared even think of tampering with Sherlock’s coffee, so he doubts Donovan really has. Dealing with an angered Lestrade is just not worth it, however much she loathes Sherlock.

John leans on the reception desk, chatting up the woman on duty this early morning, when he realizes Sherlock had been gone for much longer than is strictly necessary to fetch a goblet of water, so he goes around to the back office, glancing at Donovan’s back as she is interrogating witnesses in the front hall. Surely she hasn’t… but no, she doesn’t look the slightest bit fidgety and he doubts she’s that good an actress. John shakes his head to get rid of the image of a twitching Sherlock frothing at the mouth and pushes the door open.

A quick sweep of the room should have been all he needs to spot his friend, it’s a small room after all and it’s rather well-lit and bare.

“Sherlock?” he calls out, his brow furrowing.

He takes a few steps in to confirm his fear. No Sherlock, but also no other way out and no where to hide. How is that possible? John had been leaning on the counter facing the door. If Sherlock had left the room, he couldn’t have missed him, he’s certain of that.

John glances at the water-fountain. It has obviously been used not long ago, a small drop of water still clinging to the tap, fighting the pull of gravity. John then finds a crumpled goblet on top of the bin, along with the glittery wrapper of the candy he’d given him. Sherlock could probably tell a million things from those small clues but it only told John the obvious: Sherlock has been here recently. But now what? Where does the trail go from here? There are no other doors, no windows, no places for his friend to hide his tall frame and ridiculously long legs. John even looks under the carpet for a trapdoor, feeling very foolish as he does so. But no, no Sherlock under the carpet either.

John rubs his temples, feeling a headache coming on. He knows Sherlock is here, but he also knows he isn’t. What is that nonsense Sherlock likes to spout about the improbable being true again?

So, unless Sherlock is invisible…

“Sherlock?” he calls once more, holding his breath as he waits for an answer he isn’t sure will come.

John spins around at a small squeak coming from near the water-fountain. It isn’t the deep voice of his friend that he has been hoping for, but at least, there’s something to investigate. John goes down on all fours, fully expecting to come nose to snout with a mouse when he hears another squeak, then  something scuttles up his coat sleeve.

Shrieking, not that he will ever admit that to anyone, John almost shakes the thing of  his arm but… John squints. Sure enough, clinging to his sleeve, is a teeny, tiny Sherlock, no more than four or five inches high.

John blinks. He has the feeling he has been staring at...it, for far too long. He lifts it by the scruff of its coat, like a tiny mewling kitten and pokes it in the stomach. This had to be some kind of elaborate prank. It just has to.

“Hey! John! Stop it! Snap out of it, will you?” it mewls.

The voice is too shrill, but the tone is unmistakably Sherlock’s. Snappish and condescending, the tone he usually reserves for particularly dimwitted people like Anderson.

“But...how?” John stutters.

This isn’t just improbable, it’s completely and utterly impossible. A prank, it has to be. Except Sherlock doesn’t do pranks. He finds them childish, a waste of time and brainpower. John examines the tiny Sherlock doppelganger again but it’s absolutely identical to his Sherlock. It even has that little smudge of blue on the tips of his left fingers that have been left by last night’s botched experiment.

“Sherlock, that’s really you?”

This time, his friend gives him the “You’re an idiot for even asking.” look.

“Well, this is inconvenient,” his friend says instead, his tiny limbs swaying this way and that as he hangs from John’s fingers.

John is suddenly terrified to drop him. From this height, it would be like falling off a mountain, so he moves carefully to hold him in the palm of his hand.

“Inconvenient?” he repeats, his voice as shrill as Sherlock’s. “Damnit, Sherlock! You’re a fucking  Thumbelina!”

Sherlock glares at him but John thinks he’s already showing an extraordinary amount of restraint, because he feels very much like freaking out, screaming himself hoarse and running around like a headless chicken right about now.

“I have no idea what that is, but yes, this situation is rather inconvenient. Has your brain been reduced to the size of a pea too? Mine, at least, is still as sharp as ever.”

The retort is so very Sherlock, that despite the slur to his intelligence, John can’t help but feel relieved that Sherlock is still himself, albeit doll-sized. He takes in a deep breath and asks what he should have asked first.

“What’s happened to you? You’re...tiny.”

“Obviously. I somehow didn’t think the whole world had suddenly become gigantic while I remained  unchanged.”

John suppresses a smile. Maybe having such an analytical brain as his has its uses if it keeps him from going into shock at such a life changing event. John is still struggling to keep his fear under wraps, but he can’t even imagine what Sherlock would look like in fit of panic and here he is, so small John could crush him in his hand if he isn’t careful and Sherlock looks just as aloof as he usually is.

“But what happened? How is…” John gestures with his other hand up and down at the state of him. “That, possible?”

“Maybe something in the water,” Sherlock said pointing at the water fountain. “John, take a sample. Or maybe the mint,” he added plucking out the sweet from his mouth and wrapping it in a handkerchief. “You should probably grab the other sweets too before anyone else eats them.”

John nods but hesitates, looking at the tiny Sherlock sitting snugly in his palm.

“No one can see you like this. They’d probably want to… put you in a zoo, or dissect you or something.”

“Step on me, more likely,” Sherlock offers, unfazed at the prospect of being stomped on like a vulgar cockroach. “Hide me. Preferably where I won’t get inadvertently crushed.”

Well that doesn’t leave many options. Not his pockets, obviously, and not anywhere where he could easily get jostled by the crowd or all he’d have left is a handful of Sherlock-jam. The shoulder or head would be best but he would be visible and John didn’t have Sherlock’s unruly mane of hair to hide him in. John finally undoes his coat collar a bit, regretting not having one with a wider brim like Sherlock’s. However, he spots an old, ugly scarf at the back of the door. He doubts anyone would miss it so he  wraps it loosely around his neck, creating a perfect hiding place for sherlock.

“Is that all right?” he asks, lifting his friend to the small nest in the crook of his neck. “I’ll try not to move too fast, but if you’re uncomfortable, you can just tell me, or, I don’t know, pinch me if there’s somebody too close to speak.”

“Thank you, John. This is quite acceptable,” Sherlock answers, his voice much clearer now that he’s so close to his ear.

“Do you feel all right? You’re not still shrinking, are you? I don’t want you to…” John imagines Sherlock getting smaller and smaller still until he just pops out of existence like a soap bubble. “Oh God! Maybe I should bring you to a hospital!”

“John, you’re panicking again,” Sherlock remarks, patting his neck in a soothing pattern. “I’m fine, my mind is perfectly functional, the rest is only transport.”

“A very small transport.” John mutters. He still can’t believe this is happening. “Should we leave then, before anyone comes looking for us?”

“Leave? Certainly not! There’s a triple homicide upstairs, or have you forgotten?”

“And you expect to solve it how exactly?”

“I told you, my brain works just fine. If anything my senses have been greatly enhanced. For example, I never noticed how good you smell: a mix of citrus with traces of coriandre, quite exotic in fact, smells like the sun. It suits you.”

John fights an oncoming blush, glad his friend can’t see his face from his vantage point.

“Right, yes, great. That still doesn’t explain how you’re going to examine the crime scene.”

“That’s easy. You’ll do it in my stead.”

John chokes, completely taken aback and starting to protest.

“No, listen. It’s perfectly reasonable. Tell them it’s such a dreadfully dull and easy case to solve that I couldn’t be bothered. They’ll believe that. Then just examine the scene like I usually do, try to bend down as much as possible and turn around a lot so I can see from all angles, then you only have to repeat what I tell you. They won’t suspect a thing.”

John groans, rubbing his forehead where the headache has now been building and repeating what a very bad idea this is. A foolish, insane, crazy idea, even by their standards. All the while, he quickly grabs a sample of the water and the whole candy bowl, muttering to the bewildered desk employee that it’s for the investigation. He then makes his way up to the room where the murders have taken place. It’s not difficult to locate, just follow the noise and flashes of light.

Lestrade strides out of the room as he gets there, and John quicly steps away, missing a possibly fatal collision by a hair. The detective looks decidedly sick and nervous, his complexion is off green and his hands are twitching and pulling at his sleeves repeatedly. Okay, so maybe he has learned a thing or two from Sherlock.

“I was about to come and get you,” he says, looking behind John and frowning. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“He…”

 _Last chance to back out and run home_ , John tells himself, but the small pat of a tiny, warm hand in the crook of his neck pushes him to do as Sherlock asked...ordered.

“Urgent call. He left. Said the case was too boring, not even a six and that any idiot could solve it.”

Lestrade sputters, his twitching getting worse. Maybe he should stop his caffeine intake for a while.

“Not even… But... It’s a triple homicide! Three bloody bodies playing twister in one bathtub! How can that be boring? He hasn’t even seen it.”

John feels nauseous. Even as a doctor and a soldier, that sounds adequately disgusting and at least an eight in Sherlock's scale of interest.

“I’ll come have a look and try to convince Sherlock to come back, if you want,” he lies, trying not to push the inspector on his own turf.

He needn’t have worried though. John immediately feels guilty at the look of genuine gratefulness lighting the other man’s face, and Lestrade pulls him into the room by the arm. John tries his best to ignore the strange looks the other bobbies and techs are giving him. He wouldn’t be surprised if he’s blushing but he once more takes comfort from the weight nestled in the crook of his neck. He knows he’s just the sidekick, people usually don’t even notice him as he follows Sherlock around like a second shadow. Well, fuck them, he doesn’t care. John puffs out his chest and lifts his chin, shaking off Lestrade and walking determinedly across the room to the bathroom where he remembers Sherlock needs him to stoop as much as possible, so he immediately shifts his posture, assuming the slow, hesitant shuffle of an old man.

“Are you alright?” Lestrade asks him, frowning.

“Fine, fine,” John answers airily, not sparing him a look now as he carefully waltzes around the various puddles of blood and footprints.

The harsh lights of the room, the mirrors and the white tiles spare no details of the mess in and around the bathtub. John carefully bends over the bodies, his nose wrinkling at the stench but he stays as long as he can so Sherlock has the time to analyze everything. When he feels a tug of the skin at his neck, pulling him towards the exit, he takes a walk around the rest of the suite, ignoring the stares and mutters of Lestrade’s team until he hears the smallest of whispers: “John, corner.”

John obediently moves to the bedroom’s darkest corner and assumes a thoughtful expression while staring blankly at the unmade bed while he’s really listening intently to Sherlock’s small, squeaky voice. He gives tiny nods of the head at each of Sherlock’s deductions to convey he understood before the detective moves to the next point.  John would rather tell his friend how utterly brilliant he is. Even after all his time spent with Sherlock, he can't say he found most of the clues Sherlock has. He's happy he even got one, and can't wait to tell Sherlock once they're able to talk face to...tiny face.

Lestrade finally comes over. He's been hovering at the other end of the room for the last few minutes, looking quizzically between the messy bed and John, probably falsely deducing it’s a very important clue. Well, it is actually, just not that important in the grand scheme of a triple homicide.

“So...Will you call Sherlock? Please? I’m in over my head with this one and they're really putting the pressure on with a triple homicide, but I have no clue where to start looking. A married couple and a maid? It seems so random.”

Sherlock snorts and John quickly covers it up with a fake cough.

“Right,” John says when Lestrade gives him a worried look. “No. Sherlock’s right. This case isn’t even worth a six. Just the usual spurned lover’s revenge that spiraled out of control.”

Lestrade scratches his head, looking from the bed to the bathroom.

“Lovers? You mean the husband and...the maid?” he asks, and this time John doesn’t even have to fake his eye roll as he starts explaining the finer points to the inspector and, apparently, all the rest of the crime-scene unit who have just stopped doing their job entirely at some point to listen to his explanations with various degrees of jaw-hanging and eye-widening.

“So, let me get this straight: we’re looking for an ex-boyfriend of the wife, in his late twenties, who also started flirting with the murdered maid not long ago?” the inspector asks, artfully picking out only the elements that will help him identify the murderer while discarding the rest.

John nods and immediately feels a sharp pinch at his neck and winces. Damn, that hurt! How did he… John freezes, certain Sherlock just bit him. That bloody git! Sherlock’s lucky that, as a former soldier, he has so much self-control or he would have squashed him like a mosquito by reflex.

“And judging by his footprints, he’s tall and heavy, probably a muscular build for having dragged all those bodies around like it was nothing,” John adds in a monotone, pointing from the bed where the couple was killed to the bathroom where they were stacked, before emphasizing his next point for Sherlock. “ _But_ , your team of forensics would have told you that anyway.”

“Erm… And how sure are you about this?” Lestrade asks.

“About as sure as Sherlock would be,” John answers with a smirk at his own little private joke.

Judging by the smaller pinch he receives in the nape of his neck where Sherlock has retreated, he did not find it that amusing himself.

“Oh, great! There’s two of them now,” Anderson snarks from the bathroom’s doorway, but shuts up at a glare from Lestrade, who is only too happy with John at the moment to take any shit from his subordinate.

“Okay. Well, thanks mate,” he tells John and John barely manages to avoid a solid, manly clap to the shoulder by sidestepping lightly away like a ruddy ballerina.

Lestrade gives him another puzzled look. He’s not an idiot, he can see John is acting a bit out of sorts, but he’ll probably attribute that to spending too much time with Sherlock. And he does just that, if his slight shrug is any indication.

“Anyway,” the inspector resumes. “We’ll look into that. I’ll tell you how it goes.”

“Sure, ta,” John says as he’s leaving the room before anyone discovers the tiny Sherlock hanging around his neck.

That had really been a stupid idea. Asking for trouble is what it is, parading around with such an anomaly in the midst of Scotland Yard agents. Sure none of them were as sharp as Sherlock, but it was still a stupid idea.

John hurries as much as he dares, but the hotel residents have started to rouse and the corridors are busy with the staff pushing breakfast trolleys around and the guests hurrying to leave early. John only wishes he was taller so Sherlock would be safer, but as it is, there’s still a very clear probability that he’ll be jostled a bit too hard and squash or dislodge his fragile stow-away. So he's only too happy to be safe in the cab, on his way to 221B Baker Street, where Sherlock will be safe and far from prying eyes.

“Are you satisfied now?” he asks Sherlock. “Had your fun?”

“Yes, quite,” his friend squeaks so close to his ear that  John swears he can feel his breath. “Did you see Anderson’s face. Priceless. And Lestrade? He didn’t know what to make of you. It was… It was…”

“Fun?” John suggests incredulously and he hears Sherlock hum in agreement. “You! Sherlock Holmes! You’re actually a bloody prankster, aren’t you?”

John suddenly realizes the cabbie is throwing him anxious looks in the rear-view mirror and, of course, it’s quite justified. As far as the cab driver knows, John is talking to himself so he shuts up, but Sherlock doesn’t. He’s always so jubilant after a case.

“Just ignore him, John.”

“He thinks I’m a madman,” John whispers, hiding his mouth now behind his hand.

“So? Why do you care?”

“Well, he might just want to throw me out of his cab for starters. Not that I’d blame him.”

But Sherlock just can’t shut up so John is forced to listen to him babble on the entire way home about some experiment or other, but he isn’t actually listening all that much as his brain is rather preoccupied with the problem of Sherlock’s size. What if he shrank again? What if he now had the life expectancy of a mayfly? What if he got buried alive in the clutter that was their home? It would only take a stack of books toppling over, or one of his noxious experiments he leaves lying around going off... So many things could go wrong and it would all be his fault for not seeking out help.

Thankfully, they arrive at Baker Street, cutting short the flow of images going through his head of all the accidental ways Sherlock could die in their flat. John leaves a generous tip to the cabbie who speeds away as soon as the cash hits his hand. Rude. John then has to convince Mrs Hudson to stay clear of their flat, which is not so difficult once John mentions Sherlock is planning on experimenting on body parts again. So, after such an unusual morning, it’s only to be expected if John is exhausted once he closes the door behind him and sits heavily in the kitchen chair.

“Why do these things only ever happen to you?” John asks Sherlock as he carefully fishes him out from his collar. “A naked dominatrix, a golem, a Chinese acrobat assassin… and now this. Your life reads a bit like a fairy tale, you know?”

John sets Sherlock down on the table. He looks so tiny and frail, but in perfect health. Rosy cheeks, normal temperature, his pupils are a bit hard to check though, he would need Sherlock’s magnifying glass.

“Are you giving me a medical check up, John?” Sherlock asks, making himself comfortable on the edge of his microscope as if it was his usual sitting spot.

“Erm, well, yes, I guess I am,” John admits, although he had done it without thinking.

“Good. Go on then. It’s a good idea to start collecting data as soon as possible.”

“Data?”

“Of course. I’m the smallest human on the planet. Even you can see the significance of that. Have you even been listening to me on the way here?”

John scowls, looking down his nose at the tiny man.

“Something about an experiment?” he mutters.

“Something about…? Me, John! I’m the experiment! And you will have to do as the researcher. Well, under my strict orders and supervision, of course.”

“I am not experimenting on you Sherlock! Are you out of your mind?” John exclaims, imagining the kind of things his friend usually did to the various body parts in their fridge.

“Well, how else do you expect me to make sense of this and find a way to grow me back to my standard size.”

John hates when Sherlock makes sense, although how he expects to rationalize being shrunken to the size of a pen is beyond him.

“I think we should alert Mycroft. He has to know something about this. It must have happened before to some other poor sod and your brother knows everything! Actually, I’m surprised he wasn’t already here waiting for us.”

Sherlock’s rosy cheeks pale considerably.

“No, no, no! You can’t do that.”

“Is it because you don’t want him to make fun of you?”

“No,” Sherlock scowls, his little arms crossed over his torso, but far from being foreboding, Sherlock just looks adorable and John has to hide his amusement. “Oh, all right. But that’s not the only reason. Think about it, John. Don’t you think Mycroft’s first instinct will be to take me away and lock me in a lab with a bunch of mad scientists, for my own safety? To get me back to ‘normal’? And what if he doesn’t succeed? Do you think he’ll just let me return here? Or would he rather see how I can be used, how I can make myself useful to the damn crown and country. Because if he doesn’t use me for my small size, he’ll fear others will. Can you imagine all the places I could access to spy?”

John can’t say anything, he can see it only too well.

“Of course, I suspect he’ll just keep me in a golden cage like a treasured little pet and laugh at me all day, which is much, much worse. I couldn’t bear it. But, in any case, you call Mycroft and you will probably never see me again.”

John nods in understanding. Okay, calling Mycroft, bad idea.

“So... What do I do then?”

“Get the scale that’s in that cupboard there,” Sherlock orders, pointing at the cupboard behind him.

“The last time I tried opening that cupboard, you threatened me with bodily harm, Sherlock,” John says, eyeing the cupboard with suspicion.

He had been wondering ever since what his flatmate kept in there and none of his ideas had been reassuring. He half-expected to be mauled by a starving tiger if he dared open the door.

“It’s just equipment that’s annoying to recalibrate,” Sherlock huffs.

“Yes, because me and my big manly paws will do just that,” John scoffs, holding out his fine surgeons hands, before rummaging into the forbidden cupboard.

The scale is effectively one that could give very precise measures with all of its twiddly levers and knobs, and it certainly looks like it would break if you looked at it too hard. So, of course, John almost drops it when he turns around to see Sherlock stripped down to his briefs. It makes sense, he had just not expected it.

John settles the scale on the table, making sure the needle points at zero and holds out his hand for Sherlock to climb on so he can act as an elevator.

John notes down Sherlock’s weight. It shocks him almost as much as his height. It’s so little, it makes him so vulnerable that it scares him. So after measuring various body parts, John calls for a pause. He needs a cup of tea if only to soothe his nerves that have only become more frayed the more he measures Sherlock’s ridiculous new body proportions.

John takes out their mugs and puts the water to boil. He likes this routine, it’s familiar, relaxing. Or it was, until he hears his friend snorting from the table.

“What?” John snaps.

“What do you expect me to do with that?” Sherlock asks, pointing at the second mug. “Drown in it?”

“I’m actually starting to consider it,” John retorts, annoyed that he hasn't thought of the logistical problem himself.

As he goes through the kitchen drawers, he finds that they don't have anything small enough to serve as a teacup for mini-Sherlock and Sherlock has been unusually unhelpful, still sitting half-naked on the table as he stares intently at his shirt. If John didn’t know any better, he’d say the detective looks puzzled. That would be a first.

"What's the matter?" John asks.

"Don't you see?" Sherlock answers, waving his shirt like a white flag. "We've been so blind, John! Terribly blind and stupid!"

John glares at his friend, ready to retort with a sarcastic “Yes, Sherlock, it’s a very pretty shirt.” when he finally understands. _Oh, they had been stupid, hadn’t they?_

“Your shirt...” John says and Sherlock nods excitedly, urging him on. “Why have your clothes shrunk too? It makes no sense!”

“Absolutely no sense!” Sherlock agrees and he looks torn between excitement and frustration. “Because if I ingested something that caused my shrinking, and I see no other explanation possible, then why did my clothes shrink with me? It’s completely illogical!”

Sherlock’s rant is interrupted by the kettles whistling and John busies himself making a normal sized cup of tea, transferring a few drops of it into a small bottle cap for Sherlock. Not ideal, but it would have to do. Except Sherlock has forgotten all about tea, apparently, as John turns around to find him in his unmistakable “I’m in my mind palace, don't bother me” posture, sitting forward with his eyes closed, his chin resting lightly on the bridge of his crossed fingers. John knows it’s no use trying to rouse him out of that state so he waits patiently for Sherlock to come back to the real world.

Fortunately, his friend is only gone for twenty minutes. He’s seen him retreat to the back of his mind for a full day once, before he had to resort to an ice bucket to get his attention back to the real world.

“Good news, John.” Sherlock exclaims. “My mind palace is safe and sound. I was a bit worried for not having seen the obvious, but it must have been shock after all. You should have provided me with a blanket.”

John rolls his eyes. Of course, it would be his fault in the end.

“Is it still a mind palace, then? Shouldn’t it be a mind cottage? Or even a hut, given your size?” he teases back.

“Funny,” Sherlock replies, oozing sarcasm. “How many times do I have to explain that the body is only transport, John? Besides, I have you to do all the mundane things. Like tea.”

Sherlock takes the small cap between his two hands. The improvised cup still seems huge in comparison, and for the second time that day, Sherlock spits out his drink.

"Not good?" John asks innocently.

"God, no! Why does it... Did you use the cap of the curry paste tube as my teacup, John?"

John shrugs innocently before digging his phone out of his pocket, flicking it open to a new text.

"Sherlock? Why is your brother asking me if you microwaved you phone again?" he asks, turning the screen towards Sherlock.

His friend scowls at it before muttering:

"He just can't let it go. I did it just once and it was ages ago."

Sherlock then rummages in the pockets of his abandoned, shrunken coat and pulls out his miniaturised phone, shaking it a few times, then throwing it over his shoulder.

"Useless. Shorted out or something. Tell Mycroft I did microwave my phone, he'll be sending me a new one in the hour."

"I'll just wait for a bit before I do that, shall I? I don't really fancy Mycroft or one of his goons waltzing up here and finding you like that."

"Ignore Mycroft? My favourite pastime! I see you're learning, John," Sherlock tells him with one of his rare, but warm smiles. "So, how about we spent our afternoon looking at slides instead?"

And so they did, John preparing slides of the water and mint samples they had collected at the hotel, as well as blood, saliva, tissue and hair samples from Sherlock, and shreds of his clothes, even his beloved Belstaff coat wasn't spared. In the meantime, Sherlock carefully scrutinised them through the microscope lense, asking John to takes notes from time to time since his own writing would be illegible once grown back. John just loves that his friend doesn't doubt for a second that he will get back to his normal size so he complies easily enough with his friend bossing him around.

At the end of the day, they are exhausted. Well, John is exhausted, Sherlock is beyond frustrated since his results do not make any sense and he is currently venting said frustration by kicking around his lab equipment on the kitchen table. Fortunately, Sherlock doesn’t have enough strength to actually break anything. John wouldn't mind shooting something himself. Earlier, they found strange components in the mints. The mints! John was responsible for his friend’s condition after all and he didn’t know if he would ever forgive himself if Sherlock stayed stuck like that, or, God forbid, if he got hurt because of it.

To top it off, Sherlock doesn’t seem to know how to remedy the situation, despite his earlier reassurances, because what unidentifiable components they found in the mints, they didn’t find in Sherlock’s blood sample, or anywhere else for that matter. It would even be reasonable to dismiss the mints as a simple oddity, or coincidence, except not all the mints have been tampered with, only a handful. It certainly looks like the whole thing has been set up as a prank. They were so screwed.

John hears a crash and he snaps his head back to tiny-Sherlock, who apparently decided that throwing his equipment over the edge of the table produced a much more satisfying sound. A destructive Sherlock was never a good thing.

“Come on, Sherlock. You need some rest,” John tells him with his doctor’s voice, catching him by the lapel of his shirt as he tries to run for another beaker to sacrifice to the Great Void.

“I don’t see how you expect me to sleep,” Sherlock snaps back, squirming to escape John’s grasp.

John sighs and cradles Sherlock in his hands, moving them back to the sofa of the living room. They had been in the kitchen all day and those chair were damn uncomfortable.

“Well, you should. You’re as cranky as a four year-old who needs a nap,” John scolds gently, lying down on the couch and setting Sherlock down on his chest so they can speak face to face for once

“I’m on a case. I don’t sleep whilst I’m on case,” he argues and John has to struggle against the urge to point out how childish that is.

Instead his takes out his phone and shows Sherlock the relevant text from Lestrade.

**Got him. Evidence piling up. Thanks, John. I owe you one. -Greg**

He’d told Sherlock earlier but his friend’s attention had been focused solely on his microscope.

“Case closed. Any other argument I need to invalidate?” John said, trying not to sound too smug.

Sherlock pouts, crawling into his shirt pocket. The equivalent of normal-sized-Sherlock slamming shut the door to his bedroom, but John is quite used to it by now and secretly glad he can’t completely shut him out for once. So John just starts talking about anything and everything, hoping to turn Sherlock’s mind away from what he must be considering a failure. He knows Sherlock will be listening even if he doesn’t feel the need to participate in this one sided conversation and after twenty minutes of rambling, John sees his friend’s little curly head poking out of the pocket again just as he starts reminiscing about the time he had deduced every terrible thing that had happened to him during the most embarrassing date in history just by looking at his shoes. It had been amazing and had helped him put the whole messy affair behind him much faster than he would have otherwise.

John looks down fondly at Sherlock only to find him sound asleep and he chuckles. Right, he didn’t need to sleep, the stubborn git. John reaches out for the remote and turns on the TV. He’d rather not fall asleep so he can keep an eye on tiny-Sherlock, just in case.

It’s just past midnight when John realizes something is wrong. Sherlock is still sleeping but it looks as if he’s vibrating, or shimmering. It’s strange and quite frankly, it’s freaking him out. But Sherlock is still sleeping peacefully and John doesn’t have the time to wake him up before limbs sprout out all over the place and  he’s buried under a full-sized, god-he’s-heavy, Sherlock, pinning him to the couch.

John flails his free arm, trying to shake his friend awake.

“Sherlock!” he calls, his voice muffled by Sherlock’s shoulder.

John should be annoyed but he’s too happy to care. Even Sherlock’s groan of protest doesn’t manage to dampen his mood.

“Sherlock! You’re back to normal!” he says, his voice still giddy. Honestly, he sounds like a lunatic right now. “Gerroff me, now, before I get smothered to death,” he adds, trying to push his flatmate off of him.

Sherlock reluctantly starts to shift, only to flip them over, John lying atop Sherlock with his arms holding him against his chest.

“Uhm...What are you doing?” John demands, feeling his face heat uncomfortably.

This feels too… intimate. But it feels nice, too.

“Payback,” Sherlock mumbles, spying him through half-lidded eyes. “You got to play doll with me all of yesterday, now it’s my turn.”

John wants to protest, indignation and outrage bubbling inside him. That’s got to be the most unfair, incorrect statement ever to cross Sherlock’s lips. In fact, it’s so obviously wrong… Is Sherlock just looking for an excuse to _cuddle_? John suddenly stops squirming in Sherlock’s arms. It had been a very bad idea to begin with since the friction just created a very involuntary reaction in the area of his groin and he can only hope Sherlock isn’t aware of it. But his friend has closed his eyes again, although he’s keeping a strong hold over him. Not sleeping, then.

John sighs and forces himself to relax in Sherlock’s arms, but it’s turning out to be quite difficult being so close to him, basking in his warmth, hearing his rapidly beating heart and his smell… John hadn’t realized until now how he had missed his friend’s scent while he was only four inches high.

“Is this another one of your experiments, Sherlock?” John asks him in a whisper, his breathing still a bit short.

When he didn’t understand Sherlock’s behaviour, that was usually the best explanation.

“Yes, now shush,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Oh, I’m sorry boys!” Mrs Hudson exclaims as she catches them entwined on the couch the next morning.

Talk about a rough awakening. John tries escaping from Sherlock, unsure whether his friend was really planning on giving him the doll treatment all day or if he had just been joking, but Sherlock is faster and pulls him back to the couch again while Mrs Hudson shoots John an accusing look. “When you said Sherlock was planning on experimenting on body parts, I hadn’t realized you were talking about your body parts, John.”

Their landlady, who by all rights should be flustered by the situation, is, on the contrary, trying very hard not to dissolve into laughter.

“Yes, very funny, Mrs Hudson. Now, if you don’t mind…” Sherlock snaps, which has the merit of getting her to scuttle out as fast as her arthritic legs would take her.

John can very clearly hear her laughing on her way out though. What is wrong with everyone today?

“Sleep well?” Sherlock asks him, relaxing his grip.

“Erm… Well, yes actually,” John answers after a moment’s thought, fighting down another blush at the thought of the previous night, sleeping in his friend's arms. “Was that really necessary?” he asks with a nod of his head towards the front door through which their landlady had disappeared.

Sherlock shrugs.

“Well, you must be glad to be your own size again,” John says cheerily, anxious to change the topic of conversation. “How about I make us a nice cuppa? I promise it won’t taste like curry this time.”

Sherlock smiles and follows him into the kitchen, John feeling his eyes on him as he busies his hands with the kettle, washes out last night’s cup and grab the tea out of the cupboard.

“You didn’t seem surprised last night,” John asks because it had bothered him for a good while before he'd managed to go to sleep. “About transforming back, I mean,” he adds hurriedly and damn if he didn’t feel another blush coming on.

“Umh? No. I thought it might wear off,” he answers lazily. “Midnight?”

John nods. The show he’d been watching ended precisely at midnight.

“Makes sense,” Sherlock concludes.

“It does?” John asks, taken aback by Sherlock’s lack of interest. He was the same when John wanted to go over a case that he considered closed. It just couldn’t grab his interest anymore if he thought it was solved. “Wait, you know what happened to you, then?”

“Not in detail. I doubt I ever will, but broadly speaking, yes. My restoration to full height at midnight only proves it. ”

“Tell me,” John demands eagerly, cursing when the kettles whistles and he has to take a couple of minutes to prepare the tea before he finally gets the story. “So?”

Sherlock smirks.

“Do you believe in fairy tales, John?” he asks unexpectedly.

“What? Like princesses, witches, dragons and all that rot?”

“I take it that’s a no, then?”

“I just don’t see what it has to do with you…” John trails off, looking dumbstruck.

“Shrinking to the size of a Lilliputian? Probably everything, especially when nothing else makes sense. I thought- I hoped I had been cursed and that, like is often the case in fairy tales, I would be set free at midnight.”

“You know fairy tales?” John asks, smiling widely.

“Not that I had any say in the matter, but I was a child, once, you know,” his friend huffs, before hiding behind his cup.

John is surprised he hasn’t just deleted those as being worthless. He’s deleted the solar system after all. There was probably a story there but he didn’t want to pry if Sherlock didn’t want to tell him.

“So, a curse?" John repeats. "That’s your conclusion. You know, I don’t think I can put this one on the blog. I’d probably get a psy eval and I’m not sure I’ll manage to pass it this time.”

John looks across the table at Sherlock, expecting him to look amused but he is brooding instead.

“In fairy tales, the prince gets cursed when he’s being an insufferable git,” he says.

“So? That’s never bothered you before. Just be glad you didn’t need the kiss of a princess to break the curse, because then, you might really have been in big trouble,” he jokes, trying to lighten the mood. Besides, he imagines Mycroft could have arranged that if the worse-case scenario came to pass.

With no warning, Sherlock grabs his hand, pulling him halfway over the table.

“Would that have bothered you?” he breathes out, their noses almost touching.

“Erm, no. Why would it?” John asks, confused and wondering where exactly he had gotten off-track in the thread of their conversation.

He belatedly gets it when Sherlock pulls him just a little bit closer and their lips meet. Soft and warm and demanding. Jesus, Sherlock was kissing him, and he was bloody brilliant at it too, but all too soon, it ends, Sherlock draping himself back over his chair and staring at him with those sharp blue eyes. Analyzing. Worried.

As well he should be. Because that had totally come out of nowhere and, at the risk of repeating himself, he is _not gay_. But this is Sherlock, and Sherlock is always the exception, isn’t he? He’s always been special to John, since their very first meeting. And sleeping in his arms last night had not even been weird, although that was definitely not something friends did, and the kiss… Oh, that kiss had been something else and John wouldn’t mind kissing him again, finding out what Sherlock liked, what made him moan and what made him shiver and…

Oh damn, Sherlock is smirking again. He must have been reading every thought that has been passing through his mind and he is very pleased with himself. He'd show him.

“A princess, am I?” John asks, pushing his chair back and walking around the small table, never once breaking eye-contact with Sherlock, but Sherlock doesn’t even have the decency to look abashed, the prat.

That’s when John realizes Sherlock has been setting up this whole conversation, before riling him up so John would come on to him strongly and forget about his doubts, his uncertainty. And it had almost worked. John had fully intended to give Sherlock a searing kiss he wouldn’t forget anytime soon. It was a thoughtful intention, in a twisted kind of way that was so typically Sherlock.

John stops, staring down at Sherlock who looks uncertain again, so John ruffles his curls.

“You’re adorable, you know that?” he whispers in his ear and leans over to give him a light peck on the lips.

It’s much less than what he wants to do to Sherlock right then but the reaction he gets is much more rewarding than what he had hoped for. Sherlock actually blushes. John hadn’t even known he could.

“I hate you,” Sherlock mutters, pulling John onto his lap and burying his head in the crook of his neck.

“No you don’t,” John replies, grinning like a loon and enjoying the shiver running down his spine at whatever Sherlock was doing to that sensitive spot just under his jaw. “You’re just mad I saw right through you for once.”

“Just this once,” Sherlock says, nipping his ear so unexpectedly, a moan escapes from John.

“I gather this is a bad time?” a stuffy voice cuts in from the doorway.

Of course Mycroft would interrupt them in what is probably the most important development of their relationship. John curses himself for not having answered the man’s text last night and tries to jump out of Sherlock’s lap but he, in turn, holds him there, his hands pressed firmly on his hips, before he goes so far as to wrap his arms around his waist, pulling him closer and dropping his curly head against John's chest,  using him as if he was a pillow.

“Go away, Mycroft, you’re not wanted here,” Sherlock tells his brother coldly.

“Obviously,” Mycroft says, his voice dropping with sarcasm and his hand dropping a brand new phone on the table next to them.

He gives them one of his all-knowing, syrupy smiles and just turns on his heels without another word.

“One minute and thirty two seconds. That’s a new record,” Sherlock exclaims.

“You can’t use me to make your brother uncomfortable, Sherlock.”

“Of course I can. I just did. I think next time, I might try to slip him one of those special mints,” he says, eyeing gleefully the bowl of tampered candy they had set aside.

So, for the good of the Queen and country, John was forced to give Sherlock that mind-blowing kiss he had been planning earlier in order to spirit away the shrinking-mints, all  in the hope that Sherlock would never, ever find them again.

 **  
**  



End file.
